He had nothing to say to that. It was for theologians to banter about, not a disgraced knight. He was the last person on earth who deserved Jack’s devotion, or anyone’s. It was best not to think too hard on it.
The strangeness of the streets – when all the citizens were out and speaking to one another, and commerce had ground to a halt, with nothing but the bells to cover the city like a shadow – the whole of it struck Crispin bluntly, as when the death of King Edward III fell upon London. It had been a strange, sad time.
Amid the muffled silence, the sound of a cart churning down the street with the heavy footfalls of a draft horse fell hard on Crispin’s ear like an instrument out of tune. And before he could turn, he reckoned what it was.
The driver was the same man from all those years ago. More gray in his hair, perhaps, but with that same still and stoic face. He wore no livery and pulled slowly on the reins, with arm muscles flexing under a studded leather tunic, until the heavy, covered carriage halted. The carriage’s sides bore no arms, gave no clue as to who might be inside. But it didn’t need them.
Crispin took a breath and stood slightly in front of Jack out of habit, even though the man could well take care of himself.
A flap on one of the carriage’s windows lifted, and an arm beckoned. Crispin made eye contact with Jack before stepping forward.
He stopped before the carriage and waited. A familiar voice came from behind the curtain. ‘Get in, Master Guest. And … Master Tucker.’
‘God’s blood,’ Jack gasped behind him.
Crispin swept his sword scabbard back, ducked, and climbed in. Jack followed. They sat on the cushioned seat opposite the man Crispin remembered as Bishop Edmund Becke.
His hair was light in color, his eyes blue, with a gaze that ran rampant over the two of them, ticking off details and filing them away. His face still seemed young, as young as Jack’s, but it had seemed as young the last time. One of those faces that seemed perpetually youthful, Crispin supposed.
With some unknown signal, the driver pressed on, and Jack jerked forward, nearly pitching to the floor. He righted himself with an embarrassed fidget of his hands and braced his foot forward against the wooden floor.
The bishop surveyed them both with a mild expression. Gloved hands pressed together like a prayer, but the fingers teased at his shaven chin. A ring glinted from one of the fingers and Crispin’s gaze was caught by it for a few moments.
Becke smiled. ‘Has it truly been some twelve years ago, Master Guest?’
‘Yes. Since you attempted to get your hands on some parchments from some Jews doing no harm. Did you ever find them?’
Becke frowned. ‘Oh, I think you know the answer to that.’
Crispin kept his steely gaze steady on the bishop.
Becke changed tack. ‘You have a new ornament since last we met, Master Guest. A sword.’
Though he now itched to, Crispin didn’t touch the sword nor look at it. ‘Yes.’
‘Bestowed upon you by the Duke of Lancaster’s son. A proud moment that must have been.’ A Yorkshire lilt to his speech. Crispin remembered it but said nothing. He worked at keeping his breathing even. He refused to look surprised by Becke’s revelations.
The sharp eyes turned toward Jack. ‘And Jack Tucker. My, my. You were a mere lad the last time I set my eyes upon you. Look at you now. A man.’
‘And fully capable of defending my master.’
Becke’s eyes lit before he laughed.
Crispin laid a hand on Jack’s knee, hoping it conveyed to his servant to keep himself in check.
‘Of course you can defend your master. And have. But you need not worry over that today.’
Crispin sat back, resting his shoulders against the seat. ‘I wonder if you haven’t heard the news, Your Excellency. That the queen has died.’
‘Alas, yes. Requiescat in pace.’ He crossed himself lazily as he tilted his head, listening to the bells. ‘Unfortunately, my work cannot wait.’
‘Your work?’
‘Oh come now, Master Guest. I can tell by the look in your eye that you fully expected to see me. You know my work.’
‘I have interfered with it before.’
Crispin was pleased by the sudden flattening of the man’s expression. ‘Indeed you have.’ He rubbed the thigh where Crispin had sunk in his dagger all those years ago. ‘I have not forgotten.’
Crispin smiled. ‘Good. Why do you concern yourself with a book that no one can read?’
The first sign of emotion crossed the bishop’s face. He placed both gloved hands on his thighs and bent forward, eyes spearing Crispin. ‘Someone, somewhere will be able to translate it. And then the blasphemy will spread and infect. Order, Master Guest. We must keep order or our Christian society will surely collapse. Would you leave us to the mercy of infidels and idolaters?’
‘If you haven’t translated it, then how do you know what it says?’
He smiled and leaned back. ‘I was curious to see you two again. My curiosity is now satisfied. Where may I drop you off?’
Crispin folded his arms over his chest. ‘Why kill the men who merely looked at the book?’
With a flick of his lash, he deftly sidestepped the question. ‘Can I tell you my theory? This might intrigue you. There are men – and women – who would see the dominance of the Church dwindle. They question the sacraments, they question the hierarchy, they even question the Scriptures …’ He shook his head. ‘You cannot have order on earth as it is in Heaven if such persists. God does not wish for us to question His anointed. He does not wish us to disrespect those He puts above us, both pope … and king.’
‘But does not God give us mere mortals our free will, to seek and find?’
‘Wait, Master Guest. You have not heard my theory.’ He paused, body rocking with the lumbering wagon. ‘In my theory, I see free will as the key to open the door to the Devil, to let Hell in. And each turn of that key widens the portal, and those that question become drawn to the pit ever faster. They willingly do so in the guise of this “free will”. You see, God tests us, Master Guest, as he tested Job. Some say that Job well deserved to push God aside. But what is the alternative? Damnation. A fiery eternity. And for what? Free will. Free will is not free thought. No, my friend. There is no true free will but the holiness that is God and His Word and His Holy Church. These are set in stone and must not veer neither to the left, nor the right. There is only one path. It is straight and narrow.’
‘Interesting. But you fail to take into consideration whether a book or two – or a man or a woman’s faith – can bring a sinner to the righteous path. This book you seek can transform the mind to make all that might be indistinct clear. Isn’t that worth championing?’
‘You don’t understand the sinner, Master Guest, being one yourself.’
‘Are not we all sinners, Excellency?’
‘Some more than others. The book – for I know what is in it – is dangerous to the mind.’
‘I know what’s in it, too.’
Jack gasped beside him. Too late. The die was cast. Crispin waited to see how Becke would react.
He slowly nodded. ‘I suspected that once it was in your hands you would allow curiosity to get the better of you. Enough to seek out what it said. Alas, Master Guest. It is your doom.’
‘I don’t feel particularly doomed by it. Nor does it take away my faith. But you’re right in that it does make me question the haughtiness of the Church. That only four gospels would be “chosen” among many more.’
Becke frowned. ‘You see. You are already infected. But I knew that a traitor would be. You moved against God’s anointed in our good King Richard and you blaspheme each time one of God’s relics comes into your unbelieving hands.’
‘I beg to differ. The relics – whatever they may be – come into my hands because of the sins of man. I make all right again. A pity that you and your philosophy cannot see the truth of it.’
‘Yes. A pity.’ He turned to Jack. ‘You�
��re a pious man, Tucker. Your immortal soul is threatened by standing beside this sinner.’
‘I’d rather stand beside him in Hell then leave him behind to reach Heaven.’
Crispin stared. Jack’s lip trembled but he had no doubt the man meant what he said. Crispin’s chest panged with discomfort. He would never stand in the way of Jack’s salvation.
Becke said nothing, but his mild expression had vanished, replaced with a slight grimace. He moved the curtain flap and whistled to the driver. The cart lurched to a halt. ‘I’ll let you out here, shall I?’
‘I’ll burn the book if that’s what you want.’
‘Oh, it is what I want. But that will not be the end of it.’
‘You would burn me, too?’
‘Not as yet, Guest. But I don’t trust that you will burn it. Give me the book. And I’ll trouble you no more.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘Then trouble awaits. You can get off here.’
Crispin rose, keeping his shoulders stooped from the low ceiling. But he didn’t immediately leave. Instead, he leaned toward Becke. ‘You cannot stomp on an idea, Excellency. Once the idea is out in the world, it is like the bee that flits from flower to flower. It cannot be stopped. Ideas are what keep mankind from stagnating in a rotten pool. It is not once nor twice but times without number that the same ideas make their appearance in the world.’
Becke was unmoved. He merely sat and stared blankly at Crispin.
Crispin grunted his displeasure and cast the curtain aside to leap to the ground. Jack followed and the carriage driver did not hesitate to move it along.
They watched it go.
‘We should have slit his throat while we had the chance,’ said Jack.
Crispin nodded. It might have been better if they had.
They found themselves on the Strand, nearly to Westminster, and now they had to walk all the way back. It was late afternoon. Sunset was yet hours away, but it had been a wearying day with one thing or another assaulting them. And little rest they’d get this night with the bishop’s men after them.
Nothing was spoken between them as they walked, each deep into their own thoughts. It wasn’t until they were in view of Newgate that Crispin spoke. ‘I suppose it doesn’t matter in the scheme of things whether Bishop Becke gets his book to destroy or not. It is childish of me to hold on to the thing when, in the end, I know it must be burned.’
‘But it’s like you said, sir. The idea of it is already in the world. I don’t suppose it does matter if the book is destroyed.’
‘I suppose it’s … it’s just giving in to him that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.’
‘Me, too, sir.’
They walked along Newgate Market where it turned into the Shambles. The sight of a mounted man in livery, holding the reins of another’s empty horse, slowed them. He was standing before their door.
‘God’s blood, what now?’ hissed Jack.
Crispin moved cautiously forward; when they got to their front step, the man merely looked at them but made no move toward them. Crispin pushed open the door and saw a tall figure standing before his cold fireplace.
He turned.
‘Your Grace,’ said Crispin with a bow.
John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster, flicked his gaze around the room. And before Crispin could ask, the duke stepped toward him and narrowed his dark eyes. ‘No nonsense from you, Crispin. I’ve come to hire you … to solve the murder of the queen.’
NINE
‘But,’ sputtered Crispin, ‘you told me the queen was ill.’
‘Yes. But there is reason to believe that she was poisoned.’
‘And … what reason is that, my lord?’
Frowning, Gaunt reached into the ornate pouch hanging from his belt and passed a parchment to Crispin. Opening it, Crispin read:
It is foolish to ignore the Lollard treatises. To save England from the fools in Rome, the old ways must make way for the new. Those who stand in the way must die. The crusade begins!
Crispin turned the page over but found nothing more. ‘Where did this come from? To whom was it sent?’
‘It was found in the queen’s bedchamber. No one knows whence it came. But, of course, the chamber and all around it was razed.’
‘Does the king suspect that this was not her rightful death?’
‘No. And I would not burden him. He is … quite out of his head at the moment. But we must know.’
‘Yes.’ Crispin looked at the parchment again. ‘It isn’t a precise threat. And the court does allow the presence of Lollards.’ He stared pointedly at Gaunt.
‘The king does … reluctantly these days. And we are ever grateful for what grace he allows us. But if these rogue Lollards are responsible for the queen’s death, then his tolerance will come to a swift close.’
‘It would.’ Crispin walked slowly across the floor. ‘My lord, I feel it will be necessary to investigate personally at court. And I think that we all can see the futility in that.’
‘I have brought you livery. You can wear a hood and disguise yourself. And I will personally watch over you and your proceedings.’
‘You will … assist me in investigating?’
He seemed to huff at Crispin’s choice of words but settled his face blandly. ‘I see no way around it.’
Crispin had to admit that the thought enticed. Then he looked at Jack. ‘Jack, I need you to stay here and guard the … the object.’
‘Of course, sir. What shall I do if … if Ashdown returns?’
‘Turn him out. And keep a sharp eye out for the bishop.’
‘Right, sir.’ He bowed to the duke.
Gaunt said nothing as he led the way out of the house. But when they were standing on the granite step, he turned to Crispin. ‘An interesting if not cryptic conversation.’
‘I have … discreet doings to attend to.’
‘Strange personages? Bishops? You do move along an odd chessboard.’
‘By necessity, Your Grace.’
Gaunt nodded and turned to his retainer. ‘Be so good as to give your livery and your horse to Master Guest here.’
‘My lord?’ He exchanged glances with Crispin.
‘Make haste, man,’ prodded Gaunt.
The man let go of the other horse’s reins, which the duke took up. He dismounted and shrugged out of his tabard and reluctantly handed it to Crispin. Crispin pulled it down over his head, straightened it, and pulled his hood up. He mounted and looked down apologetically toward the man. ‘Much thanks.’
Gaunt bent down and spoke briefly to the man before turning his horse and setting out. Crispin followed.
‘Besides this note,’ said Crispin after they had wound down London’s streets heading toward Newgate, ‘have you any reason to believe the queen’s life was at stake?’
‘There are always rumors, threats. Nothing to take seriously.’
‘And why the queen? Why not the king?’
‘He is well guarded.’
‘There must always be an instance or two when he is not. If this did happen at court, any courtier could have laid in wait.’
He gave Crispin a wary glance. ‘You seem to have thought this out.’
‘Take no offense by it, my lord. If I plot and scheme now, it is to discern what an assassin might attempt.’
‘If you say so.’ He bounced lazily with the horse’s gait and said nothing for a time, until: ‘I see your lodgings have improved. There was some discussion about where you lived. Some seemed to think you could now be found on Bread Street.’
Crispin huffed. ‘That was … an aberration. Some knave is impersonating me.’
‘Impersonating you?’
‘Yes. Some sort of scheme, no doubt, to get money out of the local merchants. I haven’t yet caught him … but I will.’
‘God’s blood,’ he laughed. ‘I would like to see that!’
They chuckled together as they used to do. Though Crispin felt that pang of regret that their camarader
ie was only temporary, it didn’t seem to hold the sting that it once did. He was glad of it. And he reckoned it had a lot to do with a herd of Tuckers awaiting his return.
‘I will need to speak with her ladies. I take it they are still at court.’
‘Yes,’ said Gaunt. ‘I don’t know what will be done with them. They are being kept out of the king’s eye. He weeps at the sight of them.’
This human side of Richard gave Crispin pause. He’d only known his pettiness at the merest slight, his vengeance, and perhaps even a bit of envy of his boisterous cousin, Henry of Bolingbroke.
‘And the physicians attending her. Will they speak to me?’
‘I shall make them do so.’
‘Is it possible it was an illness, my lord?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘When I speak to the ladies, it might be prudent to have Lady Katherine accompany me. Will she allow that?’
‘I’m certain she will.’
Crispin brooded over many things: the problem at hand, the book that lay hidden in Jack’s chamber, and always, always of Philippa. Before he could stop himself, he blurted, ‘I have a son.’ He would have thrown his hand over his mouth if he could have. But once begun, he couldn’t stop. All his self-admonitions fell away. ‘He is ten now.’
Gaunt slowly turned to look at him. Those scowling eyes softened. ‘A son?’
‘Yes. A … a bastard. On a woman I … I have long loved.’
That arrow hit true, for Lancaster’s face was nothing if not sympathetic. ‘Ah,’ he said quietly. ‘I must speculate that since you are not married … the lady must be.’
‘Yes.’ The expelled word was a balm to the tightness that had bored into his chest. It had wound tight over the years and speaking of it did lessen its tension. ‘She is a prominent woman, married to an alderman.’
‘I see. And do you dally with her, Crispin?’
‘No, my lord. She was not married at the time. I would not burden her so now. But we do burn.’
‘That is right and proper. It doesn’t do to cuckold a man who doesn’t deserve it.’
‘He knows nothing of it. He even claims the boy is his.’
‘And that is as it should be. He’ll be safe. He’ll prosper.’
Traitor's Codex Page 9
